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by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Yuuri's caught in the thrall of some hazy dream, something soft and sweet and tender; with the blankets wrapped close against his skin it's easy to slip from fantasy to reality, easy for the edges of his imagination to melt into the immediate satisfaction of the present." Yuuri takes his time waking up on his honeymoon.


Yuuri wakes up warm.

It's a slow process. He's caught in the thrall of some hazy dream, something soft and sweet and tender; with the blankets wrapped close against his skin it's easy to slip from fantasy to reality, easy for the edges of his imagination to melt into the immediate satisfaction of the present. He takes his time fitting himself into the familiar space of his body, lets his mind wander while the rest of his self comes to wakefulness in the slow haze of his thoughts; he thinks it must be nearly ten minutes since he first stirred when he finally opens his eyes to blink myopically at the blur of the room around him.

It's an unfamiliar space. Yuuri remembers arriving late last night, remembers unlocking the door to a suite far larger than any he's had occasion to stay in before; he remembers the spill of laughter not his own, remembers the taste of champagne warm on his tongue and the disbelieving smile that played over his lips. He can remember tangling the blankets now drawn up close around his shoulders, remembers undoing the hotel-tidy lines of the sheets into something far more natural and inviting than they were to begin with; and he remembers drifting to sleep cradled in the warmth of more than the comforter now sliding free of his shoulders. The other side of the bed is empty, when he turns his head to blink at it, the pillow pulled out-of-order to speak to the now-missing occupant, and it's as Yuuri reaches out to weight his hand against the soft of the fabric that he hears the crinkle of paper and realizes there's a note there, the white of it all but vanishing against the pristine clarity of the sheets. He closes his fingers against the paper, lifts it towards his face as he squints at the dark lines of handwriting looping over it; and then "Good morning!" echoes through the room as the hotel door flies open to let a newcomer into the space. Yuuri jumps, startled out of composure by the sudden entrance and reaching to grab at the fallen edge of the comforter to pull it back over his bare shoulders; but when he looks back towards the doorway there's only one person standing there, his silver hair perfectly identifiable even without the assistance of Yuuri's glasses.

Yuuri heaves a sigh. " _Viktor_ ," he groans, letting himself fall back over the sheets. "You startled me."

"I didn't wake you, did I?" Viktor asks, rustling through the process of stripping off his scarf and the heavy weight of the winter coat he's wearing. "I thought you'd be awake by now, you're usually up by nine at least!"

"When we're at home," Yuuri says to the ceiling. "My body still thinks it's the middle of the night." He lifts his head from the pillow under him to watch Viktor maneuver his boots off his feet to set in the entrance along with the rest of his outerwear. "Where were you?"

"At the beach!" Viktor steps free of his second boot and comes forward into the room with such light steps he looks like he's dancing over the gap between them. "I watched the sun come up."

"Did you sleep at all?" Yuuri asks, reaching out to touch Viktor's wrist. "You're cold."

"I'm fine," Viktor tells him, smiling so wide Yuuri can see it even without the aid of his glasses. He turns his hand in Yuuri's hold, twisting his fingers up to interlace his hand with the other's. "You're just warm from sleep. Did you find my note?"

Yuuri lifts his other hand to gesture with the paper caught in his fingers. "Found it, yes. Read it, no."

"I didn't want you to worry if you woke up and I was gone," Viktor tells him, reaching to tug the note from Yuuri's fingers and glance over his own words on the page. "I guess I didn't need it after all." He moves as if to toss it aside; Yuuri tightens his hold on Viktor's hand, pulling himself upright in a rush as he reaches to clutch at the edge of the paper.

" _No_ ," he says, dragging the note in towards himself as Viktor blinks surprise at him. "No, I want to keep it."

Viktor huffs a laugh. "It's just a note," he says, his tone indulgent in spite of the half-formed protest of the words. "There's nothing in there worth keeping."

"There is," Yuuri insists, pulling harder until Viktor gives up his hold on the paper and lets him tug the note in towards himself. "Everything about today is worth remembering."

"I didn't think you were such a romantic," Viktor tells him, his voice going soft and tender in that way that always makes Yuuri flush with self-consciousness, that makes him wish he had his glasses on so he could see the way Viktor's eyes melt into summer-sky blue as the other gazes at him. "Are you going to be like this for the whole honeymoon?"

"Are you complaining?" Yuuri demands, closing his hold tight on his prize. "After you left me to wake up alone my first morning as a married man?"

"I left you a note!" Viktor protests, and Yuuri huffs an exhale and turns his head away to gaze at the window of their suite instead of meeting Viktor's gaze. "Yuuri!" Viktor leans in closer, pressing against Yuuri's bare shoulder and nuzzling against the other's neck. "Yuuri." That's pleading, now, whining over tones of mock desperation against the other's skin; the sound of his name is warm against Yuuri's collarbone. "Yuuri, please forgive me."

"You're cold," Yuuri says, reaching to push at Viktor's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Get off me, Viktor."

"Yuuri, don't abandon me!"

"I'm doing it," Yuuri says. "I should never have married you, this was all a terrible mistake. Do you think I can still get this annulled, or will it have to be a full divorce proceeding?"

" _Yuuri_ ," Viktor wails, and Yuuri huffs an exhale as Viktor throws himself bodily against him to bear the other back down to the bed. "Don't leave me, Yuuri!"

"Get off me," Yuuri repeats, but it comes out strained against the beginning of a laugh, and when he pushes against Viktor's hand still interlaced with his own the effort is entirely for show. "I can't leave if you're lying on top of me."

"Good," Viktor says against his shoulder, turning his head in to press the cold of his nose against the curve of Yuuri's throat. Yuuri hisses at the chill but Viktor just nuzzles in closer to steal more of his body heat. "I'll never move, then."

"Idiot," Yuuri tells him, but he's letting even his token resistance go, and when he turns his head it's to catch the silver of Viktor's hair against the shape of the smile forming at his lips. "I can't believe I used to think you were cool."

"I _was_ cool," Viktor says against his neck. "I won the Grand Prix Final five times. In a _row_."

"I know you did," Yuuri agrees. "What _happened_?"

He's teasing. He can feel a smile threatening his lips and his deadpan tone, can feel the pressure of amusement building in his chest as he lets the words fall sharp-edged from his tongue. But Viktor goes quiet instead of laughing, offers silence instead of protest, and Yuuri can feel his smile giving way to a frown of concern as the other stays silence. "Viktor?"

"I fell in love," Viktor says against Yuuri's shoulder, and Yuuri can feel all his teasing die to silence at his lips at the soft sincerity under Viktor's voice, at that tone he drops into that always reminds Yuuri how different the facade is from reality, that undoes the brittle shine of his public smile into the melting warmth behind his eyes when he looks at Yuuri over their dinner table, or next to him on a plane, or from the other end of an aisle in a church. Yuuri's throat closes up on itself, his eyes burn with sudden emotion, and when he says "Viktor" it comes out straining around the tension of almost-a-sob in his throat.

"Yuuri?" Viktor says, lifting his head at once as his voice skids over the edge of concern. "What's wrong?" His eyes are brilliant from this close up, wide and bright and shining concern as he blinks down at Yuuri underneath him. "Are you-" and Yuuri catches at the back of his head, pressing the curve of his palm to the soft of windswept silver, and pulls hard to urge Viktor down towards him. Viktor's lashes flutter, his eyes go soft, and then he ducks in obediently to close the distance between his mouth and Yuuri's. His hair is cold, chilled by the wind outside and still clinging to flecks of snow that melt under the warmth of Yuuri's palm; but his mouth is warm, and gentle, and as soft as the affection in his eyes.

Yuuri doesn't need to have his glasses on to read Viktor perfectly.


End file.
